A Night by the Tickled Pear
by roadspavedwithgold
Summary: Harry Potter has stumbled on something startling: a lovescene involving one Draco Malfoy. Despite his best efforts, his attraction grows, and one night, on his way to the kitchens, fate plays it's wild card. HPDM Slash. Being Rewritten!
1. Facing Desire

Hey everyone! Thanks for your feedback – it's great to hear from you. I've decided to post this one chapter at a time, as much as it kills me to delete all those chapters. Here is the rewritten Chapter 1: enjoy!

I do not own any characters, setting, or plots found in the Harry Potter series.

Credit to my darling beta, Phedre, who helps me all the way 3

-------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 1: Facing Desire

_A loosely shorn blonde head lowered to his navel, the man's tongue swirling over smooth muscle and following the trail of hair to the hem of his faded jeans-_

Harry Potter woke himself from a not so deep sleep with a moan. To his misery, he saw exactly what he expected: the red curtains of his four-poster bed and a prominent tent in his burgundy sleep pants. "Dammit!" he murmured, his voice gravely with sleep and something else as his head slammed back into his pillows in frustration. It had been at least three weeks since he had seen them together in that empty classroom, and it had been every night since that he had slept little and poorly with only his own ministrations to sooth his desperate body. The sight of them was still burning behind his eyelids, determined to set him on fire from the inside out.

_He was out past curfew, but for the Boy-Who-Lived, a certain invisibility cloak made rules of such a mediocre sort ignorable. He had woken up with that same nightmare about Surius that had been haunting him for months; Surius' face as he went through the veil, then a clammy hand around Harry's ankle, pulling him under to join his godfather. It made him feel like an utterly disgusting coward. If Surius had been forced o face that fate, Harry should be able to at least look it in the eye; but the terror that glided over his body at the very thought of the veils stole his breath and courage. He would wake to be covered in cold sweat and Surius' name on the tip of his tongue. Harry had chosen to take a walk rather than the options afforded to him by trying to sleep: he could toss and turn until just before breakfast or he could go back to the cold embrace of the veils._

_He had been lost in his musings when a deep groan interrupted his train of thought. His wand automatically rose a little higher in his grip, but he took a few tentative steps forward. He could hear faint rustlings and whispers from a slightly open door up ahead. This was the moment when Harry realized he should be turning around and promptly forgetting everything he might have seen, but curiosity killed the cat, and he tended to be familiar with the line between life and death. Moving as silently a possible, both to avoid detection and hear every sound, he moved slowly until he was looking into what was an abandoned classroom. What he saw would quickly replace his nightmares with torturous dreams of an entirely different sort._

_Blaise Zambini was sitting on the edge of a bench, supported by his forearms as he leaned back. His shirt was undone, revealing the well sculpted muscles of a man rather than a boy. Harry recognized the moans he had heard in the hallway as his, falling from Blaise's parted lips. Kneeling between his legs on the floor was the familiar icy blonde head of Draco Malfoy, his face hidden as he pumped Blaise with his mouth. Draco's hands traveled from Blaise's hips to his inner thighs in turns, drawing gasps from his lover as he worked. Blaise, motions jerky and fast, took Draco forcefully from his ministrations, dragging him up into a searing kiss. Harry could see the blonde's pale hands working through his lover's dark hair, tightening in it as his body gave in and bucked, trying instinctually to reach that which could give it release. Draco was taller than Blaise as he stood with Blaise on the bench, tilting Blaise's head up for better access. _

_The brunette's hands went to the front of Draco's unbuttoned shirt, sweeping it off Draco's body with one smooth motion. Draco removed his grip on Blaise's hair to allow the shirt to fall to the floor as Zambini's hands went to the front of his pants, unbuttoning them. A moment later Draco moaned, presumably as Blaise trailed his fingers over the blonde's member. Draco shoved Blaise's hands away roughly and Harry drew a sharp breath as the Draco pushed his pants and underwear from his hips until he was naked in the dark; Harry felt sure that had the pair not been so engrossed in each other, they would have heard him. Draco stepped over the bench on each side of Blaise's hips and lowered himself onto Blaise, his head thrown back in ecstasy – _

Harry felt his mind go blank as he rocked with unexpected climax. He gritted his teeth against the cry in his throat, the covers bunching under his fists as the last of his climax was spent. He fell back, his body loose and languid, while his mind cursed him; not because he was dreaming of another man – Harry had recognized his mixed sexual tastes years ago – but because of _whom _he was dreaming about. Draco bloody Malfoy, his long-time enemy, hater of muggleborns and muggles, continual prat and Slytherin Prefect. How could he possibly expect to deal with the insults to his face, to notes and snide comments, when he couldn't even look at Malfoy without seeing his climaxing face? It was difficult enough to listen to his voice in classes or stay focused during Quidditch matches, though Malfoy's personality admittedly made it easier.

Harry groaned in frustration, cleaning his pants with a quick flick of his wand and reaching out of the curtains to grab his glasses from the bedside table. His stomach had grumbled, and he took it as a sign from above to get out of bed. He went to his trunk, staying as quiet as possible to not wake the other boys, and took out the would go to the kitchens, have a strong cup of black coffee and a large amount of Sheppard's pie and then _maybe _he would go back to bed, assuming that it wasn't time to shower and go to classes, which seemed likely. It was already four am and he needed to be at breakfast before eight if he was going to make it to History of Magic on time. He allowed himself a sigh before walking to the stairs and, with a quick glance at the beds, threw the cloak over himself, disappearing.\

----------------------------------------------------

Harry yawned as he walked from the kitchens around six. He needed to be back in the Gryffindor Dorms by seven if he wanted to beat the rush for the showers. Dobby had kindly and perhaps excessively stuffed him with food, and the effect left Harry warm and even sleepier than he should have been. As he walked the corridor from the kitchens, he passed the classroom he had seen _them _in and felt the strange déjà vu of the moment. Walking the hallways after curfew under the guise of the cloak –

The cloak! He had left it in the kitchens on the bench! Harry launched himself in a moment of panic back down the corridor, images of potential dooms in front of him: the house elves bringing the cloak to a member of the staff, hot food spilling on it, the fire singeing the edge… Harry could not remember the last time he had run so quickly. He had gotten quite a distance from the kitchens, and it was drawing nearer to seven. Harry was nearly at the portrait of fruit that concealed the entrance to the kitchens when he heard humming and soft footsteps. Harry stopped short, his breath coming fast, and ducked behind the only object he could see – a suit of armor. He had thus far remained unnoticed when the worst happened: Harry knocked the suit of armor lightly, causing a distinct rattle.

His breath stopped completely as the humming stopped as short as the footsteps, presumably as the Prefect or professor strained to hear a noise and watched for even the slightest movement. Softer than before, the footsteps started towards Harry's hiding place. He prayed silently for the person to miss him, to somehow not see him, when a hard thump accompanied by the clang of metal launched him into the corridor and onto his hands and knees. The suit of armor had pushed back. Harry cringed, waiting for the reprimand, and he heard the executioner's axe fall.

"Well, well, well, Potter. Having a rough night, are we? I understand your urge to kneel before me, but begging will get you nowhere." The soft voice of Draco Malfoy slid through his ears, laced with condescending barbs. Harry raised his head sharply, pushing himself back up as Draco approached him, a ready retort on his lips –

Harry fell forward towards Draco as his foot caught in his robes. Draco automatically put up his hands to stop Harry from falling on him, but met only a solid chest as Harry stopped himself against a wall, trapping Draco quite accidentally in a cage of his arms. Draco moved as if to push him away, his mouth beginning to form words, when Harry's lips met his with bruising force.

It had not been planned, and Draco certainly hadn't expected to feel his mind go blank as he instinctively moved into the kiss, sliding his hands up to Harry's neck. The force of Harry's kiss did not let up, fueled by three weeks of torment and desire, the adrenaline in his veins forcing him to act on instinct alone. His only thought was the warmth and softness of Draco's lips, of the hands around his neck, and how firm the muscle near Draco's hips was under his hands.

The moment was broken by Harry's audible hiss as Draco nipped at his lip. Harry jumped away from him faster than could be imagined, his face turning many shades of red as he attempted to stammer out an explanation.

"Do shut up, Potter," Draco said smoothly as he straightened his hair and robes with dignity. A smirk settled on his lips. "I was unaware you were playing on my Quidditch team, Potter." It took a few seconds for Harry's near frozen brain to understand what he had said. "Look, I know I'm a vision, but staring is rather rude. They didn't teach you that in that _muggle _house of yours?"

"Malfoy, I, er…" Harry struggled to explain what he could not rationalize to himself. Anger rose to mingle with desire, shock, and embarrassment in his chest. Malfoy simply turned on his heel, walking at a moderate pace towards the corridor he had come from as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Harry was still rooted in the spot when he heard him.

"Oh, and ten points from Gryffindor, Potter, for not finishing what you started."

---------------------------------------------------------

Harry walked in a daze to the Dorms. Had he really just snogged _Malfoy?_ He couldn't believe it was possible, but the feeling of Draco's lips and hips had never felt so real in a dream. Upon his arrival at his bed, Harry found that the cloak he had forgotten to worry about had been laid, folded, on the end of his bed, undoubtedly by Dobby and completely unharmed. He stuffed it in his trunk, flopping back onto his bed just as the first of the alarm clocks began to go off. His head was beginning to clear, and now a new thought had taken hold.

"_Oh, and ten points from Gryffindor, Potter, for not finishing what you started."_ Had that actually been said? Was that an invitation? Because few things in the sixteen-year-old's life had sounded so tempting. Harry ran a hand through his hair. Very fucking tempting, indeed.


	2. Desperate Times

Chapter two at last! I'm glad to see so many comments saying that they like this version better. R&R!

As always, I do not own anything directly offiliated with the works of J.K. Rowling.

--------------------------------------------

Chapter 2: Desperate Times

--------------------------------------------

The last two weeks had been torture for Harry. The day of the kiss had gone by like a fever dream, shifting in turns from dreamy and detached to fitful, stuttering and red. He had managed to shower early enough that none of the other boys noticed his absence in the early hours; much to his later chagrin, Harry had still been in a fog as he dressed and he left Gryffindor Tower with a poorly done knot in his tie and seriously wrinkles in his cloak. His hair, though always stubborn, had taken on a life of its own; He made a point of avoiding mirrors after Hermione had mentioned it in a whisper, her cheeks tinged pink with suppressed laughter.

Keeping the incident from Ron and Hermione was more difficult than he could have possibly imagined. Hermione had noted his strange behavior at once; Harry could feel suspicious and concerned questions in her gaze, but she managed to keep them to herself for three days before accosting him. "What's happened?" was the only question, but it burst from her lips like a tidal wave. He wasn't sure what he said, but Harry managed some form of answer that had to be accepted. Ron had only noticed the following Saturday at Quidditch practice when Harry continually was lost in thought.

Ginny had pinpointed the change in Harry immediately at breakfast. "Someone got lucky last night," she stated while Hermione and Ron we bickering. He choked on his pumpkin juice, coughing insanely as Ginny rubbed his back.

"What?!" he managed to gasp through a fit of coughing.

"Oh, please. You must have gotten _something._ You are borderline bioluminescent." When the brunette looked at her blankly, she sighed and said, "You're glowing like a pregnant woman. Who is it?" He was unable to reply, his head down, and she chuckled, rising from her seat. As she did she whispered, "He's a lucky man, Harry."

He couldn't have replied if he wanted to.

The first two nights after he had some of the best sleep of his life. The first he blamed on exhaustion, but he could not ignore the happiness was the reason for his second sound night of sleep; the concept made Harry hate himself more than ever. Dreams are one thing; his experience last year with dreams of Voldemort had taught him that they could not be controlled and thus he could not be held accountable for the fantasies plaguing him. The lingering enjoyment from a forbidden, real world incident was inexcusable.

Harry recognized the next day that this could not and would not happen, bursting the bubble of contentment that had surrounded him. Removing all other obstacles, he would not allow it. Indulging in desire for a member of the Malfoy family would endanger everything Dumbledore had died for, everything his parents had stood for, and the lives of everyone he loved. The brunette tried not to imagine how Surius would have reacted. Even beyond his duty, it was unfathomable that they could stop trying to hex each other long enough to… satisfy any desires. They hated each other, as complicated as that, from the roots of their hair to the ends of their robes, well tailored or not.

---------------------------------------------------

Two weeks later, the Golden Boy was mad with lust. All logic and knowledge was suffocating under the weight of his dreams, sharpened and stranger than ever in the wake of Draco's lips. Harry's previous dreams had lacked the firmness of reality, ghost when compared to the vivid hallucinations of his sleeping world. The knowledge of the exact texture of Draco's lips and the weight of his arms around the brunette's neck haunted him in sleeping and waking.

Christmas holidays were fast approaching and despite the many months ahead of them, Harry would swear he had heard the word "exams" muttered under Hermione's breath. Ron had taken the chill as an invitation to sleep as long as possible; both of these gave him a measure of leeway in his behavior – with their minds and time a bit more occupied, they were more apt t o swallow the thin lies he gave to excuse himself.

With the upcoming Quidditch match against Slytherin coming fast, Angelina had decided a hands-on approach was necessary to deal with Harry's mental absence on the pitch. After pulling him from a corridor and slamming him into a wall with bone-crushing force. She had told him point blank to perform or she'd bench him. "Whatever fluff is suffocating your brain better disappear," she had growled as he walked away, rubbing the back of his head where is had connected with the wall. He had started training harder than ever after that. The Cup was on the line, and McGonagall have their heads mounted in the Trophy Room if Slytherin won it. Harry was sure that showing off to Draco on the pitch had nothing whatsoever to do with it.

----------------------------------------------------

Draco and Blaise were strewn over the blonde's bed, completely comfortable in their nudity. This year's Head Boy was not from Slytherin; Lucius was both influential and close to the Head of Slytherin house. The combination of these had allowed Draco to use the unoccupied Head Boy's room as his own kingdom, complete with a king-sized bed. The room's owner lay with his head on the brunette's stomach, his body curled and perpendicular to Blaise's. Draco's face was turned toward him, but he didn't look him in the face; rather, the blonde played with his guest's hand, twirling the heavy silver and onyx ring on the middle finger.

Draco's expression was stubborn, his lips drawn thinner than their normal fullness. Noting argumentative had been said. His stubborn expression was rooted in his refusal to say what was on his mind. This was, of course, utterly ridiculous. Blaise knew him as well as anyone could; while there were things he didn't know, they were only events – the blonde's moods, personality, and desires were all recognizable to him. They were one flesh, after all. So Blaise said nothing, stroking the moonlight colored hair with his free hand.

"Potter kissed me this morning," he said finally, his tone one of disgust, confusion, and perhaps lust, if Blaise would choose to see it. He appeared impassive and only mildly interested to Draco.

"I wasn't aware that Potter was gay." Draco sat up sharply, sitting with easy grace despite the sudden change in position.

"That's it? 'I wasn't aware he was gay?' How about _how_? _Are we speaking of the same Potter_? _Are you contaminated_?" He said all this in a drawl, but his eyes were burning with frustration. Did Blaise not hear him? The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Annoy, his arch nemesis, had kissed him. It was absurd, it was degrading-

_and he liked it. _

"Well, what would you prefer, Draco? It's obvious that you want to tell me, so do. There's no need for pretense, and it's utterly useless to try that with me," he said blandly, but his eyes were honest. Draco grew quiet, trying to regain a level of calm before he began.

_Despite the early hour, Draco felt warm and awake. His lover had spent the night with him, leaving his muscles stretched and comfortable when he woke for first patrol this morning. He loved the dynamic he and Blaise had; he had no close friends other than the brunette – no other friends, in fact. Malfoy felt no need to have friends; he was his father's son, and loyal (or fearful) followers was much more useful. Still, he and Blaise had known each other since infancy. The older boy knew everything about Draco, and so he had nothing to hide. Despite being lovers, their relationship held no romantic tendency. They simply understood that their bodies were beautiful, that they were young and strong and terribly attractive. Their relationship was tolerated by the pureblood elders, though only barely, and accepted by their peers as long as they avoided direct displays of affection outside the dungeons._

_He was pulled from his reflection by a clank of metal down the corridor to his left. Draco stopped walking, throwing a glance at his watch to be sure that it was still after curfew. Smirking when this was confirmed, he walked slowly down the corridor, keeping the noise from his shoes as low as possible in order to hear any sounds from the derelict student. He really enjoyed this job._

_Without warning but with much clattering of metal, Harry Potter was thrown full force into the corridor not eight feet in front of him, falling harshly on his hands and knees with a hiss of pain. Draco got over his momentary shock, his lips turning up into a feral grin. This night morning was getting better and better._

_"Well, well, well, Potter. Having a rough night, are we? I understand your urge to kneel before me, but begging will get you nowhere." He pitched his voice low and soft, measuring it carefully. A loud voice would be clearly fake; too low, and he would appear to lack authority. Potter raised his head sharply, pushing himself up forcefully, anger evident in his face-_

_Potter must have tripped, because he was falling towards Draco. His hands went up automatically with Seeker instinct, only to meet a firm chest; he was caged in Potter's arms. He felt something, perhaps a stir of desire at the dominated position he was in, but he crushed it down, a retort on his lips. He had not uttered a word when he felt firm lips connect with his own with brutal, sensual force. _

_The control Draco had used to push down his desire was shrinking to a tiny, squeaking, utterly ignorable voice in the back of his mind as he felt Potter's hands go to his hips, fingers digging in slightly. He met the kiss, lips moving with unconscious ease as his hands slipped around Harry's neck. Draco had to be at least five inches shorter than the ridiculously tall Gryffindor, and the crush of Potter's mouth made him tighten the embrace, connecting hard muscle. He was slipping into a dark and dangerous place; he landed a playful nip on Potter's lip-_

_Harry pushed himself away from Draco with surprising speed, his hair rumpled, lips red and face flushed with a mixture of desire and embarrassment. He began to stutter out half sentences and words in an attempt, the prefect assumed, to explain. Draco pulled together his Malfoy air, pushing the desire from his face and body language. "Do shut up, Potter," he said simply, straightening his robes and hair with precise, controlled movements. He smirked as the realization of what had happened began to dawn on him. "I was unaware that you were playing on my Quidditch team, Potter." The brunette nearly gaped at him, his lips slightly parted and his eyes wide and staring. Was he even aware of how ragged his breath was? Draco made a mental note to check his own._

_"Look, I know I'm a vision, but staring is rather rude. They didn't teach you that in that muggle house of yours?" Draco drew himself back to reality. This was Potter. That meant that he was an annoying thorn in his side, an attention-loving angst-filled teenager. That meant the insults needed to roll off his tongue. Potter managed to force out his name, but Draco ignored this, turning on his heel and taking measured, even steps in the direction he had come. He allowed his face to arrange itself naturally again, and he acknowledged his burning desire._

_"Oh, and ten points from Gryffindor, Potter, for not finishing what you started." He didn't turn, but only adjusted his robes to conceal his arousal. He needed to wake up Blaise._

_---------------------------------------------------------_

When Draco opened the eyes he must have unconsciously shut while telling his story, he was Blaise looking deeply at him, his dark hazel eyes unreadable. This was the feature about Blaise that he detested most; despite the years and the older boy's apparent ease at reading him, Draco was a failure at reading him. "Well?" he asked roughly, his voice a bit more gravelly than was normal.

"Well, it sounds like the Golden Boy wants into the snake den," Blaise said simply before lifting himself up and beginning a trail of kisses up the inside of Draco's thigh.


	3. Confession is Good for the Soul

My dearest readers, I cannot apologize enough for the incredibly long wait on this chapter; with all the college crap that's been happening, I haven't had a moment to read my email, let alone write a chapter. I hope you enjoy this installment! I apoligize in advance for its shortness.

--------------------------------------------------

Chapter 3: Confession is Good for the Soul

Two days before the Quidditch match with Slytherin, he could take it no longer. As if the secret of his orientation hadn't been enough, their night by the tickled pear was burning in Harry's throat. It was getting ridiculous. Though he was always lacking in potions, he held up relatively well in other subjects; at the present, he was at risk of falling behind even Ron, and Hermione was panicking for him. This unrequited bullshit was driving him up a wall.

He blamed this frustration for his less than smooth kidnapping of Hermione from the Common Room. Despite two days careful planning, and by careful, the term obsessive would be more accurate, he seemed to have come up short for no logical reason. He did, after all, have an invisibility cloak and his youngest-seeker-in-a-century reflexes; it could only be his frustration…definitely not personal idiocy – certainly not.

Harry had seen her coming down the staircase of the Girl's Dormitory as he waited inconspicuously on the mutual landing reading a copy of the Daily Prophet. Casually, he threw out an arm to take her own, effectively dropping her large pile books for her. As if this were not enough clatter to draw the attention of the entire common room, a copy of Hermione's _The Unabridged History of Wizarding Myths _fell directly on the tail of an anonymous orange half-puffskein, who proceeded to shriek in a most deafening manner; upon later consideration, Harry decided to research any banshee heritage the creature may possess, but that was neither here nor there. After freeing the creature and helping a very flustered Hermione pick up her books, Harry spoke a bit too loudly into the silent room. "Er, 'Mione… I wanted to start studying for the exams… get a head start, you know… care to go to the library?" Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, but the look was soon replaced by surprise as Harry dragged her from the room with a cheesy smile for his fellow Lions.

Indeed, Harry was smooth…like a dirt road. Needless to say, Hermione did not buy his paper-thin excuse of studying. She had allowed him to drag her only far enough away from the portraits near the Fat Lady before stopping short, tugging him half off his feet due to his haste.

"Alright, Harry, what is going on with you?! You've been acting like Neville after Luna kissed him in honor of that strange holiday of hers. And that performance in the Common Room! Poor Crooks!" She was a bit red in the face and her normally wayward hair was revolting a bit more than usual, reminding him of a cat whose fur has risen in its upset. He took a deep breath, fighting the burning of his ears and the anxiety in his chest.

"'MioneIkissedMalfoy!" he let out in a huge expelling of breath. Her face was slightly ashen as her body stiffened slightly, her eyes a bit like saucers.

"Ex-excuse me?" she stuttered, a hand flying to her throat in what Harry found to be an exceedingly feminine gesture. He took another deep breath, trying to calm his heart. This was Hermione, his best friend. She would not turn her back on him due to his…eclectic tastes. He gulped at the thought of revealing where his tastes had been taking him recently.

"I like blokes, Hermione. Not just blokes, mind you, but…well, there it is." He looked down in fear. She couldn't, wouldn't reject him; not over this. After a deafening moment, she spoke.

"Oh, please, Harry; did you really think I was so daft?" His head shot up, incredulous. "Of course I knew that part! It really is obvious, you know." She took a breath. "What did you really mean to tell me?" She looked him straight in the eye, unwavering. He prayed silently for the Gryffindor courage he was renowned for; Voldemort seemed less and less intimidating.

"I kissed Malfoy a few weeks back." She inhaled sharply. "'Mione, I swear, it just sort of, well, happened! It was an accident, but now I can't stop thinking about him! It's maddening and I don't know what to do with myself. I can't sleep, I can't think, I'm failing Transfiguration, and-" he continued to ramble on for a few more run-on sentences before Hermione put up a palm.

"Harry! Harry! Stop! Please let me get a word in, and for Merlin's sake, take a breath!" He shut his mouth promptly in the face of her growing mane of hair. "Well, this is…unexpected." She struggled for the words to answer this. "Harry, listen to me. You know this is impossible. Merlin's pants, you're the one constantly saying he's a Death Eater! What would Lupin say? Mr. Weasley? Surius?" She stopped short as pain flitted across his face.

"You just don't understand," he said, frustration entering his voice. "I know that! I know he's a bloody Death Eater and a pureblood prat who hates all the people I love! I know he's Draco bloody Malfoy!" He was fair shouting now, with no signs of calming down. "What can I do, Mione? I'm already in over my neck! I might as well be hanged in the process! I wish I didn't find him maddeningly handsome and infuriating and all around impossible to ignore, but I do! And, and…and I'm betraying everyone, aren't I?" His hand went to his forehead in mental weariness, his eyes only a little damp – from yelling, no doubt. There was a moment of silence, as if to honor his mourning of his lost loyalties.

"Harry," she spoke a bit more softly, "you aren't the only one who has…wandering romantic taste. And if you are truly going to go through with this," she paused, "I don't know how to help you, and I don't think in my right conscience I can. Just…oh, I don't know. Just be careful, alright?" He nodded, eyes downcast. He had never thought he would see the day when Hermione didn't have the answer for him, yet could he truly have expected her to? He mentally berated himself for such stupidity. This shouldn't even be his train of thought, dear god!

"Harry, if I've learned anything that is truly of value, it is that things happen as they should," she told him, and with a light kiss on the cheek, she left him for the Common Room, his mind whirling and his spirits low. He would walk to Gryffindor tower much later, after spending a good bit of time hidden behind a column, dragging his feet and praying for peace.

--------------------------------------------------

Hours later, as he lay in his four poster bed, he would wonder for the first time what she had meant when she said that he wasn't the only one with wandering tastes. What did she know?

--------------------------------------------------

He was late for breakfast. Few fates could be so terrible for a teenage boy as the prospect of losing a perspective meal, and so here he was, struggling to untangle the horrid knot in his tie and stumbling down the steps, his books slung over his shoulder and a quill lost to the bowls of the dormitory. He had thought things could sink no lower.

Harry stumbled out of the dormitory near the speed of sound, rushing headlong towards his heavenly breakfast like a mad suitor. He could practically smell it! It was so close-

"Oh, Pott-er," came a cold, sing song voice. He whirled around, very nearly tripping over his own two feet, only to be grabbed by the shirt collar and dragged into an alcove with astounding force.

Slytherin was known for one beauty in particular, though she was rarely mentioned in public among the Lions; her sinfully full lips, shining hair like ink, startling blue eyes, and rather notable figure did not change that she was a Slytherin, at least outside closed doors. She was undoubtedly the best of her breed; nothing like that Parkinson trash, she preferred to stay to the shadows, picking her moments to be as beautiful as the night sky: dark and mysterious, yet sparkling just the same. Despite this, Harry felt a tinge of disappointment that the hand that had pulled at him were not attached to a male of her species. He ran a hand through his hair nervously.

Alice Savine, however, was the picture of elegant tact. Despite her clothing being of perfect regulation, it was clear that she was meeting the cooler months with a cloak of the finest combed wool and a fine silk ribbon, emerald of course, to hold back her midnight hair in place. Stroking back a nonexistent strand of hair from her forehead, she spoke. "Really, do you have no sense at all, Potter? You are really rather lucky that peeves had just been through that corridor yesterday, clearing out our peers before you confessed the secrets of your heart on Granger."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" he said quickly, realizing that this was a terrible excuse. Of course he did, and Savine knew it, too.

"Please, Potter. While your band of freedom fighters may believe every word out of your mouth, we are not all so sheep-like. Let me be frank." She paused, wetting her lips. Harry was silent, frozen in sharp anxiety. "The chances of Malfoy lowering himself to your bed are slim as it is. You are, after all, the leader of the Golden Trio and the antithesis of his family and morals." She chuckled slightly on the word 'morals' as if it were some beautiful joke. "Yet should you actually be dedicated to this cause, then the answer to raising your notably low chances is simply: the only way to get into a snake's bed is through its brother," again, her secret smile, "or sister, in your case."


	4. Private Motivation

Sorry it's been so long, everyone, and that this chapter is short. School and life has been equally hectic, and I lost my inspiration for a while. Never fear; the next chapter is in the works!

Chapter 4: Private Motivation

The knee-jerk reaction to the presence of a Slytherin was too deeply ingrained in him for Harry to consciously suppress. His body tightened and his mind filled with heat, ready to use like a well-honed sword or a well-aimed hex, an offense as his best defense – discounting his wand, of course. A year ago he would have balked at raising his wand to a woman, but the image of Bellatrix Lestrange stealing his only family with a single hex was still burned to his retinas. Women were not defenseless and Slytherins were not to be trusted.

"If I knew what you were talking about, _Savine_," he said stiffly, "I still wouldn't be able to trust you. There's nothing in it for you – far be it for a Slytherin to do anything without getting something out of it; other than maybe humiliating me."

"Humiliating you would not be nearly worth the effort I would be putting in. You humiliate yourself without my lifting a finger on a near daily basis." Her sneer was nothing like Draco's. His lips, thinner and paler, curved at more of an angle, and a dimple formed in his cheek.

"Or maybe dragging me a little closer to your _Lord_." Harry's voice was dripping with venom and suspicion.

"Potter, you're all hot and bothered over a prince of a strong Death Eater family. Talk like that will get you nowhere." His ears heated with embarrassment, but his glare did not waver. "Let me enlighten you. Not every pureblood of our generation serves Him, though admittedly the large percentage aspires to. We are a self-serving lot; do you really think we would so readily serve another?" She paused as if to let him speak, but really there was nothing to say. Of course he had thought that all Slytherins were Death Eater trainees. He had never bothered to give it a second thought, and he couldn't deny that he still believed it; one sentence wouldn't change that. It ran in the family after all – his father's cruelty was derived from that same belief. What was that rhyme about assuming?

Savine spoke as if emotions were not passing over Harry's face and no gap of silence had been. "Though you have every reason to be suspicious; it actually shows some moderate intelligence on your part. However, my motives are purely selfish and purely _private_." She gave him a look that told him quite clearly that he was meant not to press the issue.

"That's hardly trustworthy," he grumbled, though it had been him intention to growl.

"I've a score to settle, and the fact that my plans work in your favor will have to be enough." She paused, a taunting smile on her lips. "Or you could attempt to woo him yourself. You mentioned humiliation?" There was a stand-still between them; Harry fought himself as she looked at him, smiling. Finally, the boy spoke.

"So I'm a tool for you," he said slowly, looking her in the eye.

"But a very handsome tool," she conceded with kindness only slightly tainted with a patronizing tone. He was grappling for a foothold for his sanity; when had his life started unraveling like this?

The bell signaling the call to the first class sounded. Looking at the doors, she said, "Meet me in the Restricted Section tonight, 2 am; I'm sure a wonder boy like yourself can pull it off." He had thought she would turn to leave, but she grabbed him by the tie, pulling him so her lips were inches from his. "And don't stand me up, Potter. Many would pay dearly for my time – you're getting it for free." She turned just as the doors to the Great Hall opened. Harry was left in a cloudy stupor, her breath on his lips. Then the smell of waffles and sausage hit his nose. She had made him miss his breakfast.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

"Who can tell me the purpose of lilac in the anti-venom for a rasgan sting?" Snape drawled, his back to the class. One arm was wrapped behind him with his fist to the small of his back, the other relaxed at his side with a loose grasp on his stirring rod; Harry was reminded of a military officer prowling through an interrogation room. Hermione's hand shot up, her face tinged slightly pink with the effort of reaching as high as possible without lifting herself from the heavy oak bench.

"Only Miss Granger?" His voice dripped with disdain as he scanned the room, his black eyes landing on Hermione's face. She blushed but continued to meet his eye. Draco's hand rose lazily into the air. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" her face fell slightly as she lowered her hand. Harry turned to see Draco smiling slightly, his steel eyes alight with arrogance.

"The lilac serves as a stabilizing agent to the potion; the juice from the flowers binds the powdered scarab wings to for a thick opalescent substance which should emit a faint yellow smoke," he said, his voice betraying only boredom.

"Very good. Five points to Slytherin," the Potions Master relied, showing his typical bias to his house. "I expect the rest of you to hand in three feet on the effect of lilac on the potion and the results of not adding." The class, including some of the Slytherins, let out a groan.

Harry noticed the blonde's laughter from the corner of his eye, unable to hear in the noisy classroom, only seeing his face uplifted in cruel hilarity. He and his group were staring at Hermione, who sat with her back to Harry. Draco was discretely manipulating a dead salamander up the forest of her hair with small flicks of his wand. Anger rose in his chest. The brunette walked to her, leaning slightly over shoulder.

"'Mione, I really need help on this essay…" He started to babble in a perfect impression of Ron. While his mouth ran on about the difficulties of the essay, he gently pulled the offending creature from her hair.

"Sure, Harry," she murmured, distracted. He gave his thanks and glared at Draco, tossing the salamander to the floor. He had expected the blonde's trademark sneer; he had not expected Draco to meet his eye. Cool grey met emerald and he felt a flush rise up in his chest that had nothing to do with his anger. It lasted a moment, with his shortness of breath responding to Draco's steady gaze, and it was over. The connection broke; Malfoy smirked, turning to Blaise, making a comment too quiet for the Gryffindor to hear as the bell sounded, resulting in the clatter of books and papers being gathered and a dozen oak benches being pushed back. His heart still beating a bit too quickly, Harry gathered up his books and began to leave. Hermione had dropped her bag, scattering her belongings and shattering a bottle of ink; she was being scolded by the Potions Master and he made a hasty exit, unwilling to be drawn into Snape's clutches.


	5. A Literary Alliance

Enjoy another short but needed chapter installment. I'll try to get you another by the end of the week, but no promises. Enjoy my loves.

-------------------------------------------

Chapter 5: A Literary Alliance

-------------------------------------------

Though fifteen minutes early, Savine was already seated calmly in a shielded corner of the restricted section when he arrived; Harry hastily scampered behind a bookshelf to remove the cloak before returning, but he had obviously made enough noise that she was prepared for him. Her feet were tucked under her, her posture still impeccable despite sitting on the floor. She gestured for him to sit, laying a finger to her lips as he opened his mouth to speak. Without saying a word, she silenced the surrounding area before delicately placing her wand back into her robes.

"Well," she said simply, "here we are."

"Yes." Harry sounded unsure even to his own ears. Could this possibly get any more awkward?

"We might as well get straight to the point." She brushed a stray hair from her face and laid her hands firmly in her lap, squaring her jaw to him. "Just what are you willing to do to win him?"

What was he willing to do? "I won't betray my friends," he said immediately, "or my house."

"Somehow I think your _housemates _would see this entire attempt as a betrayal, but I see you point." She was still looking at him. He hadn't really answered her.

"I won't bewitch him or anything," he said awkwardly, "but I suppose I'd do…" harry imagined those cold grey eyes. "Anything," he finished in a hoarse whisper. She stared at him for a moment before giving a curt nod and removing two thin books, parchment, and a quill from her bag.

"That's good. Let's get to work then. In order to bed a Malfoy, you must reach a vast array of high standards, from clothing to vocabulary. You may be completely incapable of some of them," she amended. "Being a Gryffindor can do that to you, but the large majority will simply be difficult." Harry gulped. "Since your primary objective is sex, we can start there." Harry's face went bright red, his eyes growing a bit large for his face. "And that," she said, pointing to his face, "is a problem. It's common knowledge that Draco prefers to bottom whenever possible. This means that you will need to be in control, not only of the situation, but of yourself. You're a virgin?" Alice asked him simply, not looking at him as she began to scribble notes on a piece of parchment.

"I- I, well, I," he sputtered.

"Virgin. Yes." She said, making a note. "I expected as much. If you play your cards right he may find it charming, but you'll need to be prepared."

So began his "training". Savine prepared a schedule for him in which they would cover everything he absolutely had to know in order to have "even the slightest chance in hell" of reaching his goal. Tuesdays would be etiquette, where she taught him the proper way to walk, eat, and very nearly breathe for almost any occasion. Thursdays would be sexual education; not only was he learning the complexities and numerous positions, points, and desires, but she was also training him to be used to hearing about it and talking about it. "To get rid of that horrid blush," she had said. Sunday nights were what she called "background education," or the study and memorization of all Draco's not too distant family members, their ties, and identifying facts. "Simply put, to be a Malfoy is more than a single branch. It is hundreds of years of family tree. His existence is highly influenced by these people, and if for any reason they come up in conversation, you do not want to sound like an ignoramus."

Though he wouldn't voice it, Harry felt that he really wouldn't be doing too much talking, but he was in need of help and he had to take what he could get.

"And the plan is what?" he had asked her, but he had gotten no satisfactory reply.

"It's being worked out. All you need to do is keep up our studies and _keep your mouth shut_." And that was all he got. All he knew was that he had four weeks to become something utterly foreign and somewhat repulsive before the next match with Slytherin – whatever that meant for him.

------------------------------------------

"Now, Blaise, I appreciate your enthusiasm," Draco panted as Blaise hoisted him roughly up the wall, pushing himself between Draco's legs, "Really, I do. But Bins is going to, oh god, kill us i-if we ditch his class again." He said the last few words hurriedly, pulling the dark haired boy from the crux of his neck and shoulder to kiss him furiously. He was throbbing in all the most delicious places and the bruising force by which his lover gripped the back of his thighs was intoxicating. He snaked his hands up Blaise's back, pushing his hips forward. Blaise continued to kiss him skillfully, his lips warm and swollen; Malfoy could feel light stubble on his jaw. "Dear god, Blaise, either hurry up or get off," he gasped. The brunette chuckled throatily, but as he lifted his head, the eyes before the blonde were emerald, and the skin too fair; it was Harry Potter.

Draco shot up with a hoarse cry to meet a dark bedroom, his body covered in sweat and satin. He ran a hand through his damp hair, which cast light silver in the darkness, his chest still rising and falling with too much force. "Damn it," he whispered fiercely, his hand drawing down the side of his face; he was dreaming about Potter. He could not possibly sink lower. That stupid, arrogant, unintelligent, handsome –

Oh. Dear. Sweet. Merlin.

He threw himself backwards against his pillows, his limbs sprawling as did so. He hissed as the satin of his sheets dragged against his erection, his hands clutching to the sheet beneath him. Half grudging, half aching, he wrapped one lithe, pale hand around himself, groaning at the pressure he created. Using his other hand, he flicked his room with a silencing charm and locked the door with a ward. He stroked himself slowly, focusing on the thought of Blaise's fingers, Blaise's mouth; his mind refused to stay in that safe place. Soon, it was Harry, lying on his side just out of reach, trailing fingers over his head and shaft. Draco felt his breath pick up as every nerve shot pleasure through him.

"Ha-harry…" Harry was tweaking his nipples, trailing his fingers along the inside of his thighs. The green eyed boy wrapped a strong, slightly calloused hand around him, pumping firmly up and down as if they were old lovers, and oh god, it was brilliant. He was an instant from exploding into that hand and oh god-

"Darling, you really should remember that the order is ward, _then_ silencing charm," came Blaise's smooth voice from the doorway. Draco, unable to stop himself even in a moment of shock, came forcefully, a cry escaping his lips and his head flew slightly back.

"God –huff- dammit, Blaise. You mother-" he couldn't finish his statement. He collapsed to one arm supporting his body and shut his eyes, letting his breathing even out. He felt and heard the cleansing charm Blaise cast, and he turned his back so that Blaise could spoon him as he climbed into bed. He felt the prod of his lover's erection against his backside and rutted against it, still recovering from his orgasm. Blaise firmly took Draco's hips in his hands, stilling him as he applied steady pressure, still clad in his loose bed pants.

"You are going to pay if you keep this up, my love," the blonde muttered through clenched teeth, reaching behind his body to push the other boy's pant down far enough for entry. "Did you come to tease or are you going to take what you came for?" That was all he got out before he felt Blaise push two fingers into him and his mind went blank.

-----------------------------------------

"You were thinking about Potter, before," Blaise murmured into Draco's ear; Malfoy was curled with his head on the other's toned chest. A true Malfoy, his face did not change in the slightest as he heard this.

"Darling, I was thinking of nothing but you, as always when your cock is doing that wonderful thing it does." He felt the chuckle in Blaise's chest against his unexposed ear.

"When I walked in on your… show," he clarified. Draco could hear the smirk in his voice now.

"It couldn't be helped," he relied nonchalantly. "Couldn't get him out of my head. You understand that, I'm sure?"

"You know I don't mind you taking other lovers; you always stay with me through it and we are quite the pair. Why don't you just take him and get it over with? I'm sure it would be…satisfying." The brunette practically purred the words. Blaise always had a few strong voyeuristic urges. They had taken advantage of a few house mates to appease his appetite in the past.

"It's Potter!" he grumbled, burying his face into Blaise's chest.

"He wants you. You want him. I want you to have him. I don't see a problem here, darling."

"Maybe," was the only answer he got before Draco threw a leg over his hips so he could straddle his and silenced him with a kiss.


	6. A Test of Skill

I am just pumping out these updates! Inspiration has struck!

------------------------------

Chapter 6: A Test of Skill

------------------------------

"Your homework," she said in the dark of the Library, in her cool, professional, only slightly snide voice, "is to apply these skills to your life." It was one week from the Quidditch match, and now he only daydreamed of Draco; his training regularly left him too exhausted to dream at all. It was not his sexual knowledge he would be applying, she had said, but his new manners and social proprieties. "The change should be obvious," she told him. "If no one has noticed, you have failed and are most likely screwed." This was said very frankly, as if she was talking about the weather. Harry wasn't entirely sure just how seriously he took all this; he was desperate for Draco's touch, but terror was creeping in on the edges; fear of making a fool of himself, fear of betrayal, and maybe if he admitted it to himself, fear of rejection.

Harry honestly doubted his ability to be this person Alice was nurturing into existence. In her presence, he had learned how to walk with an air of upright professionalism that oozed eroticism for no apparent reason; he had the ability to erase 'um', 'like', 'bloke', and other signals of "common" breeding; he now knew a few basic spells to improve the make and color of his clothing. The list went on, at least in theory. He still had trouble containing his lush and he could not convincingly hide anger, but he _could _limit the redness and keep his face to an expression of irritation rather than intended genocide. Savine, for her part, could not decide between pride and disappointment.

This homework was the reason for Harry waking up an hour early. He showered and carefully applied a texturizing product to his hair, trimmed his fingernails, and carefully applied cologne which looked terrifyingly expensive. The other boys were only just stirring when he cast the charms he had memorized on his clothing, saturating the color and improving the length; seams were brought in slightly, but he was skittish to make any major alterations in the tailoring. He put on the new aged and distressed dragon leather shoes and sleek-rimmed glasses Savine had purchased for him.

Harry wasn't sure how he felt about the final product. He could admit to himself that the thinner frames brought out the green of his eyes and that the cut of his pants accentuated… well, everything, but he suddenly felt like he was playing dress up; he certainly didn't look like himself. "Potter, try to understand," Savine had said when he had brought this very feeling up. "We all felt that way. Though we make it appear _so _easy, every pureblood in Slytherin was groomed and trained from infancy to meet the standards you are trying to reach. Draco has naturally good taste, but it had to be built upon, and while I've always had a natural inclination to being reserved, it was trained and ingrained into me. At one point, it was a mask for all of us." She momentarily got quiet. "It still is for some of us." She had taken a sip of the pumpkin juice she had brought with her, and it had not been brought up again.

Dressing had taken him until most of the other boys had finished their showers; standing in the bathroom, a large percentage of them turned, one by one, to see a very different Harry Potter than they were used to. He would have blushed, but this new Harry did not blush so easily, especially not for them. He nodded and left with a wave over his shoulder, heading into the dorms to grab his books.

"Harry! What happened to you, mate?!" Ron demanded, stark naked minus the towel he was drying his hair with.

"I thought a change would be nice," he said with a shrug, picking up his things. _Mission accomplished, Savine,_ he thought. The looks didn't stop there. Colin Creevey, now fifteen, fair ogled him on his way down the staircase. As he entered the Common Room, whispers followed his steps; the Patil twins giggled to each other, and even Ginny, who had been regularly dating and unfazed by Harry's presence, watched him carefully from the corner of her eye. He had to carefully hide a full on grin; instead, he pretended he didn't notice, only nodding to a few select people and monitoring the way he walked ("upright carriage, chin down slightly!").

He had to steady himself as he walked into the Great Hall. This was, presumably, the first moment Draco Malfoy would see him like this, and the thought brought heat to his body with a flash of the feeling of Malfoy's hips. Goaded, he walked through the entrance and into the light.

------------------------------

It was the murmurs of his housemates that made him look to the entrance of the Great Hall, and he felt hot shock course through him. It was Potter, only _better._ He walked with a powerful dominance that reminded Draco of the fierce kisses he gave. He was dressed in something other than trash; his hair, though still a riotous mess, looked like it was meant to be that way all along. His heart pounded; it was only years of careful tutelage that kept his face clear.

And he wasn't the only one who noticed. Where normally he would have rubbed the back of his head awkwardly, Potter laughed brightly at the look on the mudblood's face, and the other men at his table had begun to clap. The Ravenclaw's were tittering about his change, undoubtedly hypothesizing on the reason for his transformation from drab to deliciously refined. The Hufflepuffs, as tactless as ever, were talking loudly and _pointing, _dear sweet Merlin; they were a lost cause, the lot of them. Harry had sat down between the mudblood and the Weasel. Incredible. His entire carriage was different.

Blaise's words came back to him. _"Why don't you just take him and get it over with? I'm sure it would be…satisfying."_

"I can see now why you want him so badly, darling," murmured Blaise into his ear. "Striking, when properly groomed. He has untapped potential." Blaise continued to eat his breakfast in his naturally quiet manner, all of his movements as graceful as water; there were times when Draco just loved to watch him. This morning, he easily pulled his attention away to watch Potter carefully with lowered eyes. He ate quietly, stewing over the sudden change. Moments later, Blaise put a hand on his shoulder in parting and got up; he always preferred to be early to his classes. Just as Draco was about to get up himself, a lithe female hand reached over his shoulder to take an apple from a bowl. He turned around to see Alice Savine standing comfortably, her apple in one hand with a single bite missing, and her eyes on Potter.

"Well, Draco," she murmured, lowering her face close to his shoulder so that only he could hear, "Doesn't Potter look rather… scrumptious thing morning." It wasn't a question. She smiled at him a secret in her eyes before walking away, tossing the apple onto a first year's plate.

Now what did she have to do with all this? He took a sip off his coffee as if he hadn't heard anything; better not to show his hand at all until he knew what she was about. He kept his dace impassive as they were dismissed by the bell to first classes, just behind the Gryffindors.

"I see Potter has finally grown some taste. Playing dress up, Potter?" he said snidely, surrounding by laughing Slytherins. Harry turned around slowly to face him, placing a hand on Ron's shoulder to silence him. He looked at Draco straight in the eyes, his face clam with two smoldering green gems.

"Are you?" he asked quietly, before turning with dignity and continuing, a deceptively strong grip on the redhead's wrist.

The blonde, just have rolled his eyes or made some gesture to cover his lack of comeback to his housemates, as they continued to laugh like the lecherous hyenas they were, but he was unaware of any action on his part. He was startled by Potter's words. It had been calm, suave, and oddly deep – there was only two available options to explain it.

Either Potter had grown a sense of charisma, or he was harboring an alien in his chest cavity.


End file.
